


Jeeves and the Only Sensible Plan

by godsdaisiechain (preux)



Series: Jeeves and the Sensible Plan [1]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preux/pseuds/godsdaisiechain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Challenge: Warmth (fan_flashworks)<br/>Summary: Aunt Dahlia sends Bertie on another wacky mission of larceny at Brinkley Court.  When Jeeves finally figures out where to look, Bertie is half frozen.  </p><p>Warnings: Aged r. has bad news for the boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeeves and the Only Sensible Plan

**Freezing**

Mr. Wooster fell against me, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. “Allow me, sir.” I grasped him firmly and helped him to his room, feeling it terribly unsatisfactory that I could only embrace him under such conditions.

**Cold**

The rummy business of the fire bell should have taught young Wooster to avoid Brinkley Court when  _Milady’s Boudoir_ was leaking oof, but the Anatolian viands had lured the harmless chump into a den full of lions that bally well did not want to lie down. Aunt Dahlia sent Wooster to steal paperwork from the Countess of Sidcup, who was visiting just before the festive Yuletide. In vain did Bertram protest that the plan lacked sense. Roderick Spode would not take kindly to the nocturnal ramblings of yours truly in the Sidcup bedchamber. The aged r. was like a bally rock, stern and unthingummy.

“If you do not do this one simple thing for auntie, there will be no more of Anatole’s dinners.”

So frightful was the suggested binge that the young nephew was prepared to face this eventuality. “And I will not see you again, Bertie.  This is all your fault.” The tone was decidedly icy.

The horrified mouth flapped open. “You won’t…”

“How on earth did you allow Madeline Spode to get hold of that cheque?” The bean whirled madly.  Aunt Dahlia had written out a donation to a preserve for baby bunnies or mad amateur dictators and added more zeroes than Uncle Tom liked.  Somehow the nee Bassett menace had got hold of the article. I sputtered. What bally rot was this?

“That cheque was in Tom’s library. And how did it get there?”

“You brought it to him.”

The auntly corpus gave forth waves of coldness. “Yes, because you distracted me falling off the conservatory roof.”

B. had scaled said roof—at the insistence of the aged r.—to retrieve what Madeline thought was a baby bird, badly spraining the Wooster wrist. “We had the bars taken down so the storm windows could be put on, but they no longer fit the windows on that side of the house. Find a ladder.” 

While I was looking for the blasted check, the maid oozed in to turn down the bed.  Bertram flew out the terrified casement to find the ladder gone and scrabbled up the ivy and timbers, twisting the injured wrist more than once. The roof of Brinkley Court had turned to a sheet of ice, and I slid down a peeky whatchamacallit, fetching up behind some ornamental brickwork with a sort of sickening crack.  Jeeves found me about an hour later. The driver and cook abetted him getting me down. I thought I would never be warm again.

 

**Getting warmer**

Mr. Wooster sat wrapped in his toweling robe and a blanket, his feet soaking in warm water, still shivering.  “Would you like the services of a devotee of Aesclepius?” 

“No, thank-you, Jeeves.” He also refused food and drink. “Dust and ashes, as they say.” I shoved aside thoughts of gathering him up to share my own warmth.

“Sir, I fail to understand,” I said when he had explained events in his charmingly disjointed way.  “Mrs. Travers said she would not see you again?”

“Dashed odd, Jeeves, what? Would you start packing and putter about until I fall asleep? I’d like to go home.”

“Very good, sir.” 

 

**Getting colder**

I packed Mr. Wooster’s things then set out to amend Mrs. Travers’s difficulties. I bribed the housemaid, claiming that Mr. Wooster had written a love poem to the Countess of Sidcup and paid a local urchin to deliver it, and acquired the envelope. I found Mrs. Travers in her study. “Jeeves?  Have you got that cheque?” I produced the required document.

“Brilliant.  Thank-you.”

“I endeavor to be of service, Madam.  Will that be all?”

“No, Jeeves,” said Mrs. Travers. “Close the door.  I’m dying.”

“I am terribly sorry ….”

“No, none of that!” She wrung her hands in her lap. “You must tell him, Jeeves. I don’t want him to see it. It’s the only sensible plan. Not after his parents….” She handed me some envelopes. “One is for you.”

“Madam, forgive me…”

“No, Jeeves. None of that, I said.” Her voice lost all of its fond warmth. “Take him away and promise never to leave him unless there is someone to take care of him. No refusals.”

“Of course, Madam. It would be my honor.”

“Thank-you, Jeeves.”

 

**Colder**

In the ack emma, Jeeves explained the heartbreaking news about Aunt D.  I tried to see her, but she ejected Wooster from the house. Uncle Tom suggested we stop back when she was feeling less riled.

After a freezing ride home, Jeeves settled me with a drink and some dinner and a thought occurred to Bertram. “Did she say anything else?”

Jeeves cleared the pipes. “Yes, sir.”  He handed me the envelope she’d given him, still full of oof. “She asked me not to leave you.”

Of all the bally nerve. “Of all the bally nerve!” I sputtered. “Does everyone think Wooster is mentally negligible? And why did she have to be so cold?” The tears welled up. Jeeves gave a manly press of the shoulder.

“You feel chilled, sir.”

“I do.” I did. The aged r, long suspecting that young blot was one of nature’s bachelors had pulled every trick out of her bag. Had she asked him to be my paramour?  The feudal spirit would be enough to make him stay, and even service the young master, a thought that contracted the Wooster gizzard in horror and humiliation.

I started to lever up, but slipped and Jeeves got a hand in under the arm before the willowy corpus collapsed back onto the aching wrist. It took some time to realize that I had started silently weeping, that the look on his face was one of sorrow and longing. So he felt it too, this warmth in the corpus? Had the aged r. found him out? How spiffing and corking and tragic all rolled up into a terribly unhappy pudding.

 

**Warmer….**

As I settled him into his bed, Mr. Wooster asked, “What else did she ask? Did she ask you to be…”  My mouth fell open in sudden, shamed understanding and my face flamed. I hazarded a glance at Mr. Wooster, who was a similar shade of red. “She must have found me out.” The world opened suddenly, as he bravely squared his shoulders. “I understand if you must go.” My heart nearly burst.

“No, sir.”

“Don’t you want to get on with your cook or waitress or what have you?”

“No, sir.”

“Jeeves, be sensible.”  I leaned down and smoothed his golden hair and kissed the top of his head.

 He touched my hand with icy fingertips. “You are still somewhat chilly, sir.” I said. Mr. Wooster tried to press himself up with the other hand and cried out.

 

**Warmth**

Jeeves unwrapped the black and blue and purple limb. “Oh, sir,” he sounded deeply concerned. “I’ll summon a physician.”

“No, Jeeves. I don’t want anyone.” He popped up as if he had been scalded. “Except you.” His eyes softened, and he wafted out and then skimmed back in, proffering aspirins and bandages and some type of soothing elixir. 

“Please tell me if I hurt you, sir.” Skillfully, as he did everything, he wrapped the arm and then oozed out and trickled back in with a chair.

“No, Jeeves,” I could not ask for what I really wanted. “I don’t want you sitting up all night.” I tried to pull up the covers and let out a squawk when I wrenched my arm again. “You can rest here.” He trickled out and oozed back in wearing his nightclothes and carrying a duvet. I was asleep before he settled on the bed.

I woke curled up beside the robust Jeevesian construction, arm bally throbbing. Wooster moaned. Jeeves tipped aspirins and a soothing drink down the young master, and propped the aching limb on a pillow. Everything went warm and pleasantly swimmy.

 

When I woke again, Jeeves was showing in a chap holding a black bag.  The blighter thought the wrist was broken and tried to jab the slender arm with morphine. I said bally not. They’d drugged me senseless when my parents died, and I could not bear it. 

Jeeves was summoned. “You used to tend Lord Brancaster?” the doctor asked.  Jeeves answered affirmative. “Good, then you know what to do for him. Hold him still.”  Concern flickered in the Jeevesian e.s.

“Have you administered an opiate?”

“He refused,” said the doctor grimly. The corpus started to shake and Jeeves closed the eyes a bit longer than the usual blink. “Mr. Wooster, this is going to be very painful. It would be more sensible to accept the morphine.”

I remembered waking up shrieking in Aunt Agatha’s house, unable to stop because of the drugs. I’d been terrified to sleep for weeks afterward. “No.” At least this would be quick.

The doctor sighed and jerked his head. Jeeves settled behind the young master and wrapped the arms firmly about the corpus, pinning the arms to the sides and pressing me hard against him.  The doctor pushed the chair so the pins were trapped.

“Mr. Wooster,” said the doctor, “Rest against your man and close your eyes. Keep talking, Jeeves.” The fellow probed and squeezed, then probed and wrenched.  Jeeves kept up a low murmur of polite, deferential encouragement and reassurance, much punctuated by the word ‘sir,’ and pressing more firmly whenever I gasped or flinched. The willowy form was soaked in sweat by the time the doctor was satisfied.

“You did very well, Mr. Wooster,” said the doctor, sounding surprised. “No screaming.”  Then he looked at Jeeves.  “Who saw to this yesterday?  Just you?  Very impressive.” I tried to lever up and Jeeves instinctively released my arms.  The room began to whirl. “No! Mr. Wooster, lean back. I don’t want you fainting.” I leaned back again. “Don’t let go, Jeeves.” The w. form was held gently. “Good. Good. Keep his arm still.” The doctor wrapped up the arm, took a look at the limp Wooster and gave Jeeves the instructions before oozing out.

Jeeves helped me mop up and get into clean dry pajamas. “Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Are you going to be sensible and biff out of my employ?”

“No, sir,” he said. “Not unless you wish to terminate my services.” 

“No, Jeeves, I do not. Will you whip up me another of whatever you gave me last night?”

“Yes, sir.”  He held me up while I drank it down and stroked the hair until I fell asleep.  When I woke again it was dark, and Jeeves was sitting by the bed, reading an improving book.

“Whatsit?”

He bent forward and stroked the golden hair. “This is a more sensible plan than leaving you, sir.” He fed me soup and buttered toast and sponge cake, then entertained me by playing comic songs on the piano. When I woke in the middle of the night, Jeeves was snoring gently beside me.  Bertram nestled up into his warmth with a gruntled sound.  He roused slightly, then cuddled the willowy form against him and kissed the forehead. “Much more sensible,” he murmured as we drifted back to sleep.


End file.
